


I don't believe you like I did before

by Fionakevin073



Series: Long Live All the Magic We Made [7]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arguing, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Love/Hate, love and hate someone at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 08:57:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: Where Anne realises that there might not be something that remains. Part 7 of Long Live All the Magic We Made.





	I don't believe you like I did before

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Hey guys, This one shot request is meant to fulfil the requests for more about Henry Brandon and the one where Henry apologises to Anne. For the guest that requested a one shot about Henry catching Anne/Charles in an intimate embrace, I’m working on finding a somewhat realistic scenario where that might happen—partially because I believe that after what happened the previous time when Henry suspected that they were romantically involved they wouldn’t risk doing anything when he was nearby. Anyway, lol thanks everyone for all of your support, it means so much to me. 
> 
>  
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> Fionakevin073

 

_I don’t believe you like I did before— Taylor Swift, You’re not sorry_

 

Henry did not like having Henry Brandon at court. 

 

Anne was—however much she disliked it— aware of this fact. Much to her husbands chagrin however, her children loved their cousin incredible much and during that first year that they were at court/Eltham palace (Anne had demanded that the palace be renovated so that her children could be placed there instead of Hatfield, since it was only an hour ride away from London) they asked for his presence frequently. 

 

It was on the 10th of May, exactly seven days from _that_ day when her children asked for Henry Brandon.

 

But that wasn’t the only person they asked for. 

 

Anne and Henry are having lunch with the children in the gardens, having chosen to take a small break from court activities and their Kingly/Queenly duties in order to have lunch with their children. Henry is talking to Elizabeth when William turns to her and asks: 

 

“Mama can Uncle Charles come with Henry Brandon when he comes to visit?” 

 

Anne’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach. She hears Henry drop his utensils on top of his plate, either angered or surprised by his youngest son’s request. She can feel Elizabeth stare worriedly into the side of her face, since Anne had told her that Charles had been executed. 

 

All she had said to the boys was that he had gone away and that they should never ask or speak of him in public or to anyone who was not her or Elizabeth. 

 

Not even Henry Brandon himself. 

 

“No darling,” she told William kindly, struggling to keep a smile on her face, “Remember Uncle Charles has gone away for good.” 

 

All of her sons are looking at her now, curiosity painted on their faces. 

 

“Why?” George asks plainly, unable to help himself. 

 

“George!” Elizabeth and Mark scold immediately. 

 

Henry is dangerously silent. 

 

“Uncle Charles did. . .” Anne takes a deep breath, the image of Charles on the scaffold blurring her vision. “Uncle Charles did a bad, mean, thing to Mama,” she tells them quietly, careful to keep her voice clear and even in order to hide her inner turmoil, “This was long before you all were born. But, when people—including myself— found out about it, in order to make it up to Mama, he had to go away. He had to go someplace that he couldn’t come back from.” 

 

Elizabeth changes the topic after that hastily but Anne feels as though the damage has already been done. 

 

When the children are eventually taken back to their rooms, Anne can feel Henry’s gaze bore into the side of her face. She sits there with her heart in her throat, unable to meet his gaze. 

 

(It’s been a lot harder to keep up the pretence of happy marriage now. Anne’s tolerance for Henry’s touch had built due to her effort over the past few months but as _that day_ approached, Anne finds herself unable to look at him. 

 

All she can see is George, Mark, Francis, Charles, Norris even William on that scaffold.) 

 

Anne leaves before he can say anything. 

 

* * *

 

 

Henry Brandon arrives at court three days after that incident and Anne’s heart aches in her chest due to the intense similarity he bore to his father. He smiles as he approaches her though it tightens when he looks at the King beside her. 

 

“Your majesties,” he murmurs, bowing appropriately. 

 

“Your grace,” Anne says pleasantly, “Welcome back to court.” 

 

Anne takes it upon herself to escort him to his chambers when she gets the chance, eager to catch up with him. 

 

“Are your studies progressing well?” She questions, walking beside him, “The music master I sent to your estates was said to be one of the best in England.” 

 

“Master Gordon has been very kind and I have enjoyed my lessons with him very much, your majesty,” Henry responds, his cheeks warm. 

 

There had once been a time where he called her Lady Anne but they were not allowed to be so informal any longer, much to Anne’s dismay. 

 

“I arranged for you to lodge in these beautiful chambers—not the one you were in last time, unfortunately someone burned the curtains in that room but these rooms are near your cousins as well— which I am sure you all will enjoy, your grace.” 

 

Henry smiles wildly at this, looking every inch his father. 

 

(It takes Anne’s breath away) 

 

“Thank you,” he tells her quietly, his eyes full of sincerity—he isn’t only thanking her for this, “Thank you your majesty.” 

 

They stop walking now and Anne is just about to respond when she hears gasps of surprise and excitement. 

 

“Your grace!” She hears her children yelp, hurrying over with all the decorum their governesses have taught them. 

 

“Your highnesses,” Henry responds, bowing appropriately before opening his arms, allowing the four boys to barrel into his arms. 

 

Anne hears Lady Bryan voice her disapproval at her sons behaviour, with even Elizabeth hugging her cousin when her sons eventually disentangle themselves. 

 

“It’s alright,” Anne tells her gently, “He is family.” 

 

Besides, they were not out in the open. 

 

Anne follows behind them as they hurry over to the gardens, talking amongst themselves loudly and excitedly. She watches from afar as Henry takes Francis and Mark onto his back, running around. Her chest is warm and light as she is reminded of how things used to be. 

 

_But life is not so bad now,_ some part of her whispers, to which her mind replies by reminding her of _George Mark Norris Charles William Francis._

 

Anne winces. 

 

* * *

 

 

_May 19th 1540_

 

Anne feels the stares of everyone at court everywhere she goes. It’s unnerving really, how obvious they all are. The room grows quiet whenever she enters; people stare and whisper when she leaves. 

 

She hadn’t talked to Henry about what they were going to _do._

 

True, she had known that he was planning on making a speech and that there were ‘festivities’ being thrown in the unjustly condemned honour but other than that they hadn’t spoken of it. Truth be told, Anne didn’t let him. She always withdrew from his company whenever he attempted to speak to her about. . . _what happened_ and she had been expertly avoiding him for days. 

 

Anne was tired. 

 

So incredibly tired. 

 

But the French Ambassador was arriving back at court after a month away, having returned to France to speak about Henry’s terms for a betrothal between Elizabeth and his son Charles, Duke of Orleans (Francis had offered the betrothal first). Anne had to be there, not only for appearance sake but to ensure that her daughter would be well-treated and that the terms would be favourable for both sides. 

 

And so it is with a heavy heart and a fake smile that Anne presides over the courts festivities that day, plastering an expression of thankfulness as people approach the head table and offer their condolences for her loss. Henry had reached for her hand and held it tightly in his grasp as some Lord or another first approached the table.

 

The moment they step away and gently pulls her hand from his grasp. 

 

_George Charles Mark Francis William Norris. George Charles Mark Francis William Norris._

 

When the french ambassador finally approaches their table, he does so with a servant behind him, with a beautiful intricately decorated chest that contains a piece of jewellery inside. Anne stiffens slightly and this time when Henry reaches for her hand, she doesn’t have the urge to snatch it away. 

 

“Your majesties,” He murmurs, bowing. Of all the french diplomats Anne had encountered Bishop Castellan was the one she liked the most. She remembered how she had approached him, fearing for her life—rightfully so— and asked him to write to the French King and ask for his aide. 

 

Oh how the tides had turned. 

 

Something bitter and anger swells within her, causing her jaw to tighten and her palms to sweat. She sees Henry shoot her a glance out of the corner of her eye, looking slightly concerned. 

 

“King Francis has sent a gift for you, in order to express his condolences,” Bishop comments, motioning for the servant to step forward and carefully open the chest, exposing a gorgeous necklace that is graced by a green emerald in the middle. It is beautiful yes but Anne struggles to thank him genuinely, too overwhelmed with resentment. 

 

“Thank your master for me, it is very beautiful,” Anne tells him, her cheeks hurting from how wide her smile was. 

 

Henry’s grip on her hand tightens. 

 

“It is beautiful,” he agrees, jealousy—of all things— evident in his tone, “But it looks rather small. King Francis must be sure that it fits her.” 

 

And then all of a sudden Anne is furious. So intensely and outrageously furious she feels the urge to slap him. 

 

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Anne adds in smoothly, “And in any case, I have only a little neck.” 

 

And then she wrapped her hands around it, laughing heartily at the jest. 

 

* * *

 

 

Anne knew that it would happen. 

 

She could not avoid it much longer but when the tension between Anne and Henry finally broke it—

many were afraid that they would kill each other. 

 

First, it started off relatively peacefully. 

 

“I. . .I was wrong to have—to have you and all of them executed,” Henry told her, unable to meet her disbelieved gaze, “And I am distressed to see that I have caused you pain. I wish I had not have done so. But for the love of god Anne, we must represent a united front, not only for England’s sake but for our children. We must find a way to. . . move past it.” 

 

Anne remembered what he had told her shortly after she had become Queen. _What remains is the future Anne._ She had been hopeful in that moment; truly she had. It wasn’t as though she didn’t love Henry: she did but the problem was that she hated him too. 

 

That was too much for her to handle on top of everything else. 

 

“Move past it,” Anne repeated, a hint of anger in her voice, “You almost had me murdered—“ with each word her voice grew angrier and louder, “You murdered my brother—my friend, your friend— you had your children’s uncle killed for something that _I_ had already forgiven him for and you do not apologise for it once and you expect me to move past it?” 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“No,” She snapped, suddenly unable to stop herself, “I waited for you for seven years!” Her eyes begin to pierce with tears. “Seven years! And you grew tired of me within a year of being married to me! One year! And what was it— a week or two before you married that Seymour Girl whom you claimed to love—“ 

 

“That was not my fault! I thought you had betrayed me with several men. I am your husband and lord—“ 

 

Anne laughed loudly, unable to help herself. 

 

“Even now, you can not even apologise. You can not look in me in the eyes and say I am sorry. I am the mother of yours sons and the most beautiful and intelligent princess in the whole of Europe- I am the woman whom you called the love of your wife, I am your _wife_ and you can’t even apologise.” 

 

“I am a King!” Henry yelled in response, “I do not apologise to anyone!” 

 

“Then there is nothing that remains!” Anne snapped back in response, “We will be trapped with each other until we both rot in the ground and the saddest thing is, is that I would not believe you if you did _apologise._ ” 

 

Tears stream down her face down and a sob racks it way through her shoulders. _Stop crying,_ her mind hisses, _stop crying._ Anne swiped at her eyes with her fists, letting out a tired, desperate breath. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Henry tells her, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I am. Truly.” 

 

Anne lifts her gaze to stare at him, feeling broken and haggard. 

 

“I’m not sure if I believe you,” she tells him, her voice a mere whisper. 

 

And then before he could say anything, she added something that made him silent with guilt and desperation.

 

“If I was being on honest, I’m not sure I want to anymore Henry.” 

 


End file.
